A Game of Choices
by Moni Hasnone
Summary: The Holmes siblings play a game. A dangerous game with high stakes. And given the competitive nature of each, none are willing to lose. Character study fic. No slash. (Post) series 4.
1. Prologue

**Title:** Game of Choices

 **Genres:** Angst, Family, Friendship, Mystery

 **Rating:** T

 **Synopsis:** The Holmes siblings play a game. A dangerous game with high stakes. And given the competitive nature of each, none are willing to lose. Character study fic. No slash. (Post) series 4.

 **Warnings:** This story is a bit weird for me to write. The environment, tone, and transitions are a bit different from my normal style, so please let me know if this style is confusing or just annoying. This is an experimental fic for my writing style, and a mental exercise trying to get into 3 of the most difficult heads to comprehend and ground them to reality. I am not native to England. If you find any detail incorrect, please politely inform me and I will edit accordingly.

 **Story Warnings:** Suicidal tendencies, guns, blood, violence, murder, drug abuse… you name it. I really outdid myself in this fic.

 **Disclaimer:** The story is based on characters from Steven Moffat and Mark Gattiss' TV show "Sherlock", based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories. I do not own anything but the writing and some ideas assumed from the show.

* * *

 **Prologue**

It was a dark room, save for a stream of light that cut through, spreading a cold white glow. One would define the room as dark enough to be black, but the focus was so little on the absence of light and more so on the presence. There were dust particles, that flirted and slowly tumbled down to the ground, illuminated into sparkling spots.

The light brightened merely a patch of the room. And at its center, there was a small ebony table, the wood carefully carved with expert hands, and polished tenderly by a passionate wood worker.

There was nothing on the table.

The environment was gray. It wasn't black. It wasn't white. It wasn't silent, nor was there noise. It wasn't devoid, for there was that elegant table at the center. But there was nothing substantial. Yet.

This was an empty board; a game yet to begin.

There was a noise, the soft buzz of machinery. A man rolled into the light, his chubby features highlighted by the light. He seemed to be in his mid-fifties and he was obese, housed tightly into his wheelchair so that parts of him spilled over. He was clad in a fancy suit, the richness of the black material evident at first glance. He had a wine glass in one hand, filled to the brim, while the other operated his mode of transportation with mere flicks of his wrist. He stopped in front of the table, looking curiously at the polished surface before observing his surroundings.

He was the first player.

There were soft footsteps. A series of deductions would conclude, merely from the sound, that this belonged – not to a child, they were louder than that – to a small woman. Yet, the sound was so soft. Barefoot, then. A woman entered into the light, her red hair glowing under the bright light as it tumbled in slight waves down below her shoulders and almost to her hips. She wore white scrubs, the square neckline highlighting her collar bones. White. Based on simply the style, it was easy to see where she could have come from. A prison. No, an asylum. No, no, that doesn't sound right.

Oh. She came from hell.

And she was the second player.

The first two players gazed at each other, the elder sipping his glass while the younger observed, her head tilted in curiosity. It was almost a trance, when the pale green eyes met the same, and there seemed to be an understanding. A quick acknowledgment that they were the same.

"Redbeard!" A voice disturbed the equilibrium, a ripple effect on a pond. It was high-pitched, the voice of a young boy, and both players turned towards the source of the sound.

A boy, barely ten years old, skipped happily towards the table, his caramel curls bouncing, his pale green eyes glistening with life and emotion. He held a stick in his hands, and wore a pirate hat, the white emblem of skull and crossbones in stark contrast to black felt cloth. The child looked towards the two in front of him, a curious gaze within those innocent eyes.

"Have you seen Redbeard?" He asked politely. "He's my first-in-command, and has been missing for quite some time."

"I'm afraid not," the older man responded. He gazed sadly at the child. Those innocent _happy_ eyes. The boy turned to the woman, addressing her with the same question.

"Have you, Ma'am?"

"No."

The answer was succinct, raw and emotionless, her voice rough from years of misuse. It befitted the respondent.

"Okay," the kid responded slowly, looking at the people before turning around, intending to leave the way he came. He had obviously trespassed something private, important even, and he had no place here. Or so he thought. "Thank you for your – "

"Stay."

The same textured voice, a haunting resonance hidden within veils of black. The same voice that re-captured the attention of the fat man, and he held the gaze this time.

The boy turned around, gazing at the red-haired woman. "Why?"

"I believe, _brother mine_ , she wants to play a game," the older man responded, slowly prying his eyes away from hers.

The child studied the two people, before finally nodding. "Okay," he responded again as he moved back to the table, his small hands splayed across the polished surface. "What are the rules?"

The lights clicked off, hurling the occupants into darkness for brief seconds before the lights came back.

And then the table held three guns. The same size, the same weight. The same color glinting maliciously off the surface. All three were identical.

"A game of choices," the woman whispered, her lips curling into a smile, her heart beating in anticipation. She reached for her gun, picking it up immediately and with an insatiable hunger. She needed blood.

"Ah," The elder man said, his eyes widening slightly in understanding. "The rules are self-explanatory then." He picked his gun as well, his old hands curling around the handle. He held the gun steady, not with the mad passion displayed by the woman before him, but with a sense of responsibility. The gun was heavy in his hands.

"They are?" The child asked, stretching across the small table so that he could reach his gun. After several grapples, the small hand curled around the mouth of the gun, dragging the device across the surface before clumsily enveloped by the child's soft hands.

The older man nodded, a pang of pain radiating through his chest as he saw the child try to balance the weight of the gun in his arms. _This wasn't fair. The child didn't deserve this._ "A game of choices, unfortunately."

The red hair laughed, an amalgamation of air and squeaky chalk. Irritating. Annoying.

Scary.

"At least one dies, at most two leave." She turned towards her opponents. "Who do you choose?" She leveled the gun at the child, pointing it at his small head, before whipping around to point at the obese man. "Who?" She laughed.

"I don't understand," the child started slowly. "Why would we play this?"

"Oh, brother _dear_ ," the red head tutted. "I will have to teach you, I suppose." Her eyes pierced into the child, forcing him to squirm under her scrutiny.

He turned away from her, ignoring her comment as he addressed the other man. "Where are we?"

"My god!" The red head exclaimed mockingly. "You might be slow," she pointed towards the obese man. "but this one is downright _brain dead_." Her smile widened into a grin. "This will be fun."

The child moved a step away from the woman, a slight tremor now developing on his lower lip as his pale green eyes turned glossy. "My parents told me not to play with strangers." He stepped back now, pushing the gun away from him, and almost placing the device back on the table.

"Then we should introduce ourselves to each other," the older man started. A part of him told him to stop, to let the boy go. Another wanted the game.

And three must play this game.

The obese man grinned, revealing his cavity-filled teeth, an attempt to reassure the child. "I am… Politician." He nodded at that.

"That's not a real name!" The boy contradicted.

"It will suffice for our game." Politician concluded, not leaving any room for discussion. "It is the role I chose for myself. And please be aware, difficult decisions are a part of my profession."

The red head smiled. "Then I will be East Wind. I don't make decisions. I only come."

The child shivered at that statement, wondering if it was too late to leave the game now. But Redbeard was missing. And there weren't many games he could play without his first-in-command. He nodded slightly to himself before introducing his persona.

"I'm Yellowbeard, Captain of the ship, and the brave and _good_ Pirate of the Atlantic," the child boasted proudly, allowing his imagination to run wild. "And I protect my crew." Yellowbeard seemed to recite, as if it was a common introduction for himself.

"Is that why Redbeard is missing?" East Wind taunted. Her eyes twinkled, and within those depths, there was a direct message: The captain had failed to protect his crew.

Yellowbeard looked visibly upset at this, and glanced down at the floor. He picked at the hem of his sweater. "Redbeard is fine."

"If you insist," she teased. Yellowbeard looked up, ready to vehemently argue against her, but was interrupted by the other man.

" _Redbeard_ isn't our game." Politician stated. "This choice," he waved the gun. "This choice is our game."

All three players moved forward so that the surrounded the table, their guns poised, their stance ready.

"Who plays first?" Yellowbeard asked.

"Why don't we start with the youngest?" Politician replied.

Yellowbeard and Politician turned towards East Wind. "You are first, East Wind."

* * *

John practically raced into the fortress, panic clearly written on his face as he briskly walked into the same building he vowed never to return: Sherrinnford.

It was a normal day, working at his clinic. Sherlock's cases had dwindled down, leaving the sociopath hungry for action. A bored, deprived Sherlock ranked number two on John Watson's list of nightmares, second only to a dead Sherlock.

But it was different now. It was that time of the month: a Holmes family reunion of sorts, or so he was told.

John was invited too (somehow, the good doctor made it onto Sherlock's view of family), but he turned the request down. He wasn't particularly keen about meeting the secret sister who swayed his heart, disguised herself as his personal therapist, and chained him down to the bottom of a well.

So, John never returned to Sherrinford. He thought he never had to. Until today, of course.

A lady greeted him at the front, dressed professionally in her gray suit. "Dr. John Watson." She nodded towards the shorter man. "I am the current governor of this fort. Thank you for joining us on such short notice."

John returned the nod. "What is the problem?" He asked. _No beating around the bush_ , he thought. Getting straight to the point.

The governor inhaled slowly. "It was a regular meeting session, arranged by Mr. Mycroft Holmes," She started as she led him down a hall way. "Mr. Sherlock had brought his violin, as per usual, and Ms. Eurus and he were playing. Nothing particularly special."

She led him to the security room, closing the door behind them as she pointed towards one screen in particular. It was a video footage and from the angle, the camera was installed on the top right hand corner so that Eurus was clearly visible, while the back of Sherlock's head faced the camera. Mycroft sat in a chair to the corner, silently observing the two violinists as they played.

The notes were beautiful, soft and dancing. John leaned in, listening to the hypnotic music. A gentle breeze, the chill of the east wind, and the leaves curled in on themselves. Nature shivered, opting to retreat into a deep slumber. A deep longing, a plead for help, for refuge. An enticing darkness, softly and slowly taking over, lending its hands to the winter snow…

A shrill pitch suddenly disrupted John's thoughts, and he was facing the electronic screen again. Both violinists were drawing their bow, maintaining the pitch as even Mycroft shot up from his chair, confused. And then the pitch got higher. Much higher, to the point that it went mute.

And all three siblings collapsed, the violins smashing onto the concrete floor. John's eyes furrowed in confusion as he leaned into the screen. _What?_ His heart spiked, watching his best friend prone on the ground once more.

"They've been like that since," the governor explained. "We tried to send Mr. Sherlock and Mr. Mycroft back to main land, but the moment we separated them, their heart beats would fade."

The governor shuffled her feet, not meeting the doctor's gaze as she continued. "We didn't quite know what to do, but we understand you are a personal doctor to Mr. Sherlock Holmes. This was the reason behind our urgency."

John nodded, understandingly. "Where are they?"

* * *

 _To Be Continued..._


	2. Chapter 1

**Title:** Game of Choices

 **Genres:** Angst, Family, Friendship, Mystery

 **Rating:** T

 **Synopsis:** The Holmes siblings play a game. A dangerous game with high stakes. And given the competitive nature of each, none are willing to lose. Character study fic. No slash. Post-series 4.

 **Chapter Warnings:** Suicide attempt(?), Childhood trauma

 **Disclaimer:** The fic is based on characters from Steven Moffat and Mark Gattiss' TV show "Sherlock", based on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's stories. I do not own anything but the writing and some ideas assumed from the show.

* * *

Chapter 1: Eurus Holmes

The hand that held the blade was far too small. The soft fingers that curled so tightly around the black handle gently brought the blade against the pale skin, resting the knife across the wrist.

It was a calculated swipe and the sharp blade cut into the skin, a thin line of red slowly seeping out. The blade was quickly removed, and a cloth covered the skin now, cleaning out the blood.

The heart beat quickened.

Was it anticipation? Excitement? Pain? Or was it fear?

The pupils dilated as the face neared the broken skin. The cloth was now abandoned, and the blade returned, slicing horizontally across the skin. An inch down from the original location, the blade flipped the thin skin out, as if folding a blanket over a bed.

The hand twitched involuntarily. The exposed muscle moved. Fascinating. Then the red sticky fluid covered the muscle, and with a hint of annoyance, the blade was cast aside again, a cloth coming to dab at the injury.

And each dab caused a spasm, the hand writhing in pain.

"Eurus!" A voice exclaimed behind the owner. There was thump of something dropping, and a woman rushed forward, clamping the cloth onto the cut. Mrs. Holmes looked at the wound. "Oh, child," Mrs. Holmes whispered brokenly. "What were you thinking?"

And when Eurus didn't answer, her mother looked up. The five-year-old gazed back, silent tears streaming down her face. But what shocked her mother was the wide grin plastered on her small face.

* * *

"Why had she done that?" Mr. Holmes asked, a clear confusion evident in his eyes. He gazed sadly at his youngest daughter, currently on the floor. Papers formed a crescent moon around her, and she picked up her crayon, leading the waxy tip on the clean white sheet. Her left wrist was tightly bandaged, the only reminder of her previous action. Her two older brothers surrounded her, following their parents' instructions and keeping an eye on her.

Mrs. Holmes shook her head sadly. "I don't understand." Her eyes glazed over as a new wave of tears threatened to spill over. "I just don't." And she covered her mouth with the kerchief, leaning towards her husband for support.

Eurus looked up, and stared at her mother crying softly into the kerchief, her father soothingly patting her head, and her two brothers hovering around her, not quite understanding what to do. It was that day she understood something. The human body was fascinating, but the human mind was even more so.

So instead of experimenting on the body, she would try another experiment. The one on the mind.

* * *

After that incident, they called a therapist to work with Eurus. Apparently, Eurus was suicidal (hah!) and this human was supposed to help her. She was supposed to understand her.

So here she was, gazing intensely at her therapist, Ms. Patricia Richards. Observing her. Preying on her.

And Patricia knew. Barely a couple of "activities" in, and the older woman found herself fearing this child. She understood: Eurus was fundamentally different.

The therapist was the first person she manipulated. Eurus talked, her high-pitched voice slowly making its way into her head.

Slow poisoning.

A week later, the woman left. She had resigned and moved out of the country.

The second person she attempted was Mycroft. He was dense, a bit slow, but he slowly picked up what she was doing. The fat teenager, far too brilliant in his school understood he was played by his far younger sister.

She had tried her mother, attempted to manipulate her into her bidding. She thought she succeeded when she won an extra biscuit, or when she put the entire blame of a ruined furniture on Sherlock. It took a while, but she realized that her mother was far more brilliant than she gave credit for. Her twinkling eyes revealed that she knew, and that she was fine with it. Eurus never understood why. Not until years later.

She didn't try on Mrs. Holmes after that.

But her favorite human, was her slightly older brother: Sherlock.

He was stupid, running around the gravestones because he thought they were _funny_. There wasn't anything special about stones with miswritten dates, but Sherlock found them amusing. He wanted to be a pirate, brave and strong. He was gullible, believing everything, trusting. His eyes sparkled with unconditional love, and the emotional child was all too happy to run up to their parents and give them a hug, or run down to her and peck at her cheek lightly.

A sign of affection?

Neither Mycroft nor Eurus really understood that.

Eurus thought she would test the theory.

They were playing, Sherlock and his friend, Victor. The same old _Captain Yellowbeard and Redbeard_. The five-year-old rolled her eyes. Do they not get tired? Bored? It made sense with Victor – that child had the intellect of a dog; perhaps that provided the reason for his loyalty. And Sherlock himself had a hubris: he sought attention and approval, and Victor gave him just that.

"Sherlock," Eurus called after him. Sherlock abandoned his "sword-fight" with his first-in-command, running over to his sister. The eight-year-old smiled lovingly.

"What is it, Eurus?" He asked. Victor ran up behind him, smiling at the younger girl as well.

"Can I play too?" Eurus asked, as innocently as possible. She looked up with her eyes wide, a technique that she learned work on adults. Apparently, not on children her age.

The smiles vanished as the boys looked at each other. "We're playing pirates," Victor started hesitantly.

She nodded, her pigtails bouncing with the movement. "I can be a pirate too!"

Sherlock shook his head. "No, you can't," he said. "Because only Victor and I are pirates. I'm Yellowbeard, Captain of the ship, and the brave and good Pirate of the Atlantic. And I protect my crew." He recited. "And only Redbeard is my crew. It's just him and me, against the rest of the world."

Eurus felt her face fall. No, of course she didn't feel _sad_ , definitely not. There was an emotion lingering at the bottom of her stomach, and heat rose up her back.

However, the child prodigy never admitted defeat. The consequent days, she continuously pestered her brother for a role in his adventures.

"You can't, Eurus. You're a girl!"

"See, Victor hides the treasure. I find it. It would be too difficult for you."

"Fine. Do you want to play the princess then?"

Playing the princess meant sitting in the corner and watching the boys play. At some point, Victor would run up to her and tap her (and that meant she was rescued? She didn't quite understand), but for the most part she was waiting.

Which automatically meant that she would never play the princess again. After all, she hated waiting.

 _An experiment_ , she told herself after the countless rejections. _This is simply an experiment. I don't want to actually play._ She placed her airplane (one of the few toys she kept close to her, and might even define as _favorite_ ) next to her side.

She liked it better when she researched on the body, she realized. This mental experimentation hit too close to home. It reminded her she was different, unwanted, and unneeded. Even worse, it reminded her she was lonely.

Yet, she would see Victor joke, and Sherlock would lean his head back, _laughing_. And just sometimes, she would wish that she could make him laugh too.

It was weeks after her initial request, and unbeknownst to her, someone else had been keeping an eye on the children.

"Eurus! Sherlock! Victor!" Mrs. Holmes called the children. The kids ran towards the woman, energetic and happy.

"Mummy," Sherlock greeted, leaning in for a hug. Mrs. Holmes simply smiled, patting her son's head fondly before separating to kneel, pulling Eurus and Victor into a small circle.

"Sherlock, Victor, are you letting Eurus play with you?"

Victor and Sherlock exchanged quick glances, just as Eurus began to shake her head. Victor was nodding. Sherlock rightly chose not to respond, casting his eyes down instead. Eurus face scrunched in confusion. _Why did Victor lie? And why did Sherlock not say anything?_

Mrs. Holmes rose her eyebrow, watching the discrepancy amongst her children. "Sherlock, let her play." She prodded his back, pushing the eight-year-old towards his sister. "Let her hide your treasure chest, and both of you can deduce where she hid it?"

Sherlock looked down, murmuring his agreement reluctantly. He slowly held out a small wooden chest. Eurus felt herself smile. She would prove to her brother that she was smart.

Eurus grabbed the chest quickly, before her brother could change his mind, and gingerly held the treasure. Her eyes glinted, and she knew exactly where she would hide the chest. The little girl turned around, her skirt flapping on the back of her calves as she raced back into Musgrave mansion.

Sherlock's pale blue eyes followed her as she disappeared into the building. He sighed, dejected. This hunt would be too easy. He could already see that she went into the building. The search would probably be over within minutes.

Mrs. Holmes smiled gently, patting her little boy before turning away. Mycroft would be coming back from hostel for the vacation, and she needed to make sure everything was in order.

Mere minutes later, little Eurus bounded back outside, grinning proudly. "The game is on, brother."

* * *

Eurus stood outside the cellar door, waiting patiently for her brother's response.

There was an eerie silence. The cold from the cellar seeped into her, but did little against the anticipation burning under her skin. She was anxious. Did her brother appreciate the puzzle?

And then there was a thump against the door, several feeble hits before the noise started.

Sherlock was laughing!

It wasn't the same sound that he emitted when he was with his friend. No, if Eurus had listened closely, she would have realized that it wasn't even a laugh.

But from what she understood, her brother appreciated her brilliant puzzle, the way she managed to rig the cellar door with a riddle. Only it really wasn't that brilliant; she could have solved it within minutes. But for someone of lesser intelligence like her older brother, it would prove difficult. Challenging.

Fun.

She smiled, bristling with pride. It was now hours after 'the first laugh', and Sherlock had only taken a couple of brief breaks between his laughter.

Did anyone laugh this long?

Eurus leaned towards the door, calling gently. "Sherlock?"

The sound stopped immediately, followed by a soft sniffle. "Eurus?"

She didn't reply, opting to stay silent. "Eurus, are you there?" The hoarse voice called out desperately. "Eurus, get me out!"

Eurus frowned. "It's a game, Sherlock. You haven't won it yet."

There was a loud thump against the door, and Sherlock bellowed into the crack. "I don't want to play this game!" Odd, how similar this sounded to his previous "laughter".

Eurus shook her head, her pigtails flying around her. "I don't understand. You don't like this?"

"Bloody hell, no!" Sherlock cursed, screaming with whatever little voice he had left. Eurus backed from the door, startled. "Get me out, please."

"I can't," the little girl admitted. She moved back to the wooden surface, her fingers trailing the wood grain. "You have to win to get out."

"I don't want to play this game!"

Eurus didn't reply, confusion still marring her face, as she stepped back.

"Eurus, can you hear me? I BLOODY HATE THIS GAME!"

"I don't want to play this game!"

"I don't want to play this game!"

East Wind was shocked, pointing the gun at Yellowbeard. "I still don't get it…" She whispered, trailing off at the end. "You always play deductions with Victor."

Yellowbeard nodded. "Those were my rules. I have control there."

East Wind frowned again. "But what's a game, if you set your rules to it."

The child pirate looked aghast. "It's not a game if you lock me in a cold cellar with barely any light source and mathematics puzzle in braille intended for students studying high school!"

"For an 'average' student, Yellowbeard. We're Holmes. We don't require education. Our brains have greater capacity – higher capacity!" The older woman cried out, surprised that she was even explaining her brother this.

Her face crumpled as she stared at the young child in front of her. The hands went up to surround her head in almost despair, and she bent down. "No, no, no, you DOOFUS!" She paused, catching her breath before continuing. "I thought you were special. When you deduced I had hidden the treasure chest in the cellar, I thought you were different."

She quickly snapped her head up, her eyes piercing into the child in front of her. Yellowbeard felt the gaze, a strong disappointment. "You are just ordinary." And the child felt something cold. Denial. And Yellowbeard started to hyperventilate.

Sherlock was hyperventilating. Cold. The cellar was cold.

East Wind pointed the gun back at Yellowbeard, aiming so that she would hit the child just between his eyebrows. She would shoot, the bullet piercing through the small brain, wreaking those neurological constructions, and leaving an empty line. A single dot on the pale forehead, a bright red hole in the small head.

"Enough," an old voice commanded. Politician gazed at East Wind, a slight fear in his eyes. "Leave him alone."

"Leave him alone."

"Leave him alone." Mycroft allowed the eight-year-old to cling onto him and Sherlock wept unabashedly into his chest. The older teenager had just returned home, and found his brother locked in a cellar from the inside. An attempt to calmly talk to the traumatized child was quickly abandoned when the response was haggard breathing and screams. So, Mycroft did the only thing he could; he broke down the door.

Mycroft turned to his younger sister, just as his parents took his younger brother from him. The adults fussed over him, calming him down. Mrs. Hudson held the curly-haired boy close to her so that his head hid into the crook of her neck.

Mycroft turned to glance at his brother once before turning back to his sister. "I don't think they really get it." He mumbled towards her. Eurus kept quiet, still standing in her corner of the room. "Mom probably sees it. She's quicker than you give credit for. She just chooses to ignore it."

The little girl abandoned her silence. "Ignore what, brother?"

The teenager regarded her. "You."

He sighed, lifting his hand to rake through his hair. "Leave him alone, Eurus. He doesn't know much yet. Let him live his life."

"Leave him alone."

"Leave him alone."

"Fine," East Wind replied. "Fine." She shifted her gun towards the obese man, settling her aim on him. "Then you can take his place."

Politician lips quivered, barely a smile on his face. "So be it."

East Wind scrutinized him for minutes, almost the same way he had so many years ago. "Am I not your sister?" She finally asked, her voice a mere whisper. "Why did you abandon me then? Why did you choose him over me?"

Politician didn't reply, simply gazing back instead.

"You chose him." She stated. "You chose him, right? Then I will manipulate him into killing you. I will make you break him." Her maniac chuckle fledged into a full-blown laugh, echoing around the gray room.

* * *

 _To Be Continued..._


End file.
